Zao

Acccording to the pink plastic watch I bought from a street vendor for twenty kuai, it is precisely 8:01 when the first xiao pengyou, or little friend, arrives. I exchange nods with his father, calling out, “Good morning” to the three-year-old son, who can’t reply because his mouth is covered with a faded, red scarf.
It is a bright, pleasing Monday morning and today I have been in Zhenjiang, China for five weeks. As Jiangbin kindergarten’s English teacher, one of my duties is to greet the children and their parents as they arrive each morning. I love this ritual.
Here comes an older girl, about seven years old, with braided hair, wearing green sweats with the kindergarten’s logo in silk screen.
“Anna! Anna! Anna! Good morning!” she says, her missing-teeth-smile as big as possible. In China, kindergarten encompasses ages two to seven.
“Good morning,” I smile, and since she is early I have time to ask, “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. And you?” she recites.
“I’m fine.”
“Anna! Anna!”
“Good morning, zao, Good morning!” Mopeds approach the kindergarten gate. A leather, high-heeled boot expertly jerks the kickstand into place as Mama carefully lifts the child riding in back, removing his second coat with hurried tenderness.
“Good morning!”
Some come by foot. Perhaps they took the bus, or perhaps they live in the dilapidated apartments surrounding Jiangbin Dadi Kindergarten. Originally, the underclothes hanging to dry, rusted metal bars protecting windows and the lack of architectural finishing led me to believe this an area of extreme poverty. In reality, the grey concrete acts as a strange, reverse facade to homes with gleaming wooden floors, plasma TVs, laptops with high-speed Internet connections, and gigantic photos on the wall from typical Chinese weddings. The economic situation is not as bad as it seems; perhaps clothes dryers are overrated.
“Zao,” to a grandmother.
“Good morning,” from a young mother on her way to work.
A few come by car, honking persistently, and one teacher arrives with her daughter by taxi.
But most come on bikes. For an American, bikes are recreational vehicles unless you are a poor, athletic teenager going to lifeguard at the local pool. For the Chinese, bikes are a practical means of transportation. Baskets, an extra seat, a horn, or a special tent for infants may be found on bikes, and anyone, any age may be pedaling.
Mothers come with the latest urban hair styles and metallic boots, smart coats on and ear buds in. Fathers come in business clothes, one in a militaristic green uniform. Grandparents come wearing silk jackets and old shoes, their wrinkled faces overflowing with doting love for the little children, their wake drenched in cigarette smoke.
The children come innocently, with multiple pigtails, rosy cheeks and colorful mittens. Some of them cling to miniature backpacks or plastic baggies-not Ziplocs-with cold medicine to be given to the school nurse, or an empty can to be recycled in the next art project, or stuffed animals lambs for wu shui, or afternoon nap time.
“Good morning,” I greet Julie, who short dark hair is perfectly in place
“Good morning,” she replies coquettishly.
“Zao.”--“Good morning,” her grandfather and I greet each other simultaneously.
“Lao shi, good morning,” prompts one enthusiastic father.
“Good morning,” she whispers, avoiding eye contact and then stealing a glance at me.
“Good morning,” I say, understanding that some of the children are still very shy around me, my big blue eyes, big nose, and light hair. On my first week teaching kindergarten in China I made three children cry. I didn’t yell at them, or slap them affectionately like their Chinese teachers do. I smiled at them and asked them pleasantly what their names were. But when I looked in the mirror this morning, and remembered Ronald McDonald’s visit to our school, it made sense. Just as many children are frightened of clowns’ big noses, white faces, and painted smiles, they were frightened of me. I was a clown. A strange white face speaking a strange language.
“Kan de lao shi, look at the teacher,” scolds the enthusiastic father.
“Good morning,” says the voice behind the timid dark eyes.
“Good morning! Zao,” I nod deferentially to the father.
“Lao shi zao,” bubbles a bouncy child, forgetting his English in excitement. I feel honored to be addressed in the mother tongue. However, hired as the English-speaking ‘foreign expert’ I reply cheerily, “Good morning!”
A rusty bicycle comes to a stop, bringing a silver-haired grandfather and a giant pillow-of-a-child. With careful strength, this ancient man helps his grandson dismount. Strength is definitely the word to describe his generation. They witnessed the founding of the People’s Republic of China, Marxism with Chinese characteristics, the Great Leap Forward (which succeeded only if you count thousands leaping into the next life), and the desperately zealous Gang of Four’s Cultural Revolution. This grandfather surely sang “The East is Red,” spent an entire day playing poker on the streets, mourned the victims of the Sichuan earthquake, and watched the Beijing Olympics with pride, surviving it all to escort his beloved grandchild--his only grandchild--to kindergarten today. I nod to him.
“Zao, zao, zao,” he replies, chuckling.
It is eight-thirty and morning exercises are about to begin. Standing in rows and columns below the red flag of the People’s Republic, the children march in place. The loudspeaker blasts the lyrics, “Come on, everybody, sha-la-la-la…”
A collage of old and new, ancient and modern, east and west, white and yellow—Zhong guo zao.
Good morning, China.